The Transmigration of Bodies (6 page)

Answer me but keep your nose out of it, she said with her eyes. On the surface she looked the same as always, fierce and wary, but the Redeemer saw, now, a certain tender tremble and almost wanted to embrace her. He’d keep his nose out of it, tho. The anemic student. Who’d have thought.

No, he said. But I’ll let you know if I do.

La Ñora nodded again and closed the door. The Redeemer stood a few seconds struggling with mental images of la Ñora and the anemic student, ate a two-day-old sweet roll and went to knock on Three Times Blonde’s door. He heard her body stylizing its steps and saw the light behind the peephole go dark. They both stood breathing silently but the door didn’t budge. Finally Three Times Blonde said Have you been wearing that facemask all day?

Yes, the Redeemer lied.

Three Times Blonde waited another minute and opened up slow. She took a step back, and the Redeemer walked in and shut the door. The moment he did, he cornered Three Times Blonde, pulled down his facemask and began to kiss her. She let him, arms at her sides, body limp but tongue responsive. In that single second the Redeemer thought of all the people who’d breathed in his face that day and the bug he’d smashed on his neck and the who-knows-what already coursing through his veins, yet here he was, a brazen bastard overexcited at the miracle of breasts and diereses before him. What a sonofabitch. Maybe she could sense the Redeemer’s black dog pawing at her chest. Maybe she simply wanted to know. Either way Three Times Blonde pushed him aside.

So who you been talking to?

Lots of people.

Who you been talking to about me, you swine? she asked, and on stressing the
me
scratched the Redeemer’s arm with a long red nail.

Not a soul. Why?

After you left my baby came over all keyed up wanting to yell at me, asking who’d I let in my house and I don’t know what-all.

That wasn’t me. That was the damn neighbor.

Three Times Blonde looked unsurprised.

I know.

So why ask?

Because men always talk. It’s like they have to report everything to their friends. Jerks.

Ouch. Three Times Blonde had taken a shot in the dark and hit him right between the eyes. And called the other asshole baby.

He left without even saying goodbye, she continued, looking mournful. The Redeemer stroked her cheek.

You feeling sad? he asked, suave.

No.

Three Times Blonde slid her hand under his shirt and stroked his chest, then suddenly slid it down into his pants and squeezed his cock, palming his balls, weighing them.

The condoms, she said.

The Redeemer pulled her in by the back of the neck and began to kiss her. She tried to pull away and oh did he not want that to happen, please no, and in his head he attempted to shoo the bugs and people and shuttered pharmacies, but inevitably Three Times Blonde pulled his arm off her and scooted aside and said Pull… out… a… condom.

The Redeemer donned a now-where-did-I-put-it? face and for a second fostered hopeless fantasies of finding an open drugstore, but before he could lie again, Three Times Blonde said You didn’t buy any. Stupidass neighbor. You didn’t buy any.

She did stick-em-up hands, as tho she couldn’t even bear to brush up against the Redeemer, opened the door, and said I got shit to do.

He begged and pleaded for a moment with his eyes and with her eyes she told him to go fuck himself, and so he went, pitiful and utterly dejected, and let the slam of the door push him home.

He walked in and threw himself down on the bed.

Some nights, when the black dog left, he imagined sleeping curled up inside some other animal, protected from the cold. But that night the black dog stayed.

In the faint light of his fitful sleep he saw Óscar’s outstretched hand, pointing, and suddenly sat up in bed because he knew somehow it contained a clue to how this grimreapery had begun. He called the Mennonite, explained what he was thinking and they agreed to meet on Lover’s Lane. Back to the Bug he went, back to streets buzzing behind closed doors, back to zigzagging around corners rife with aimed rifles, rife with thugs both uniformed and civilian. When he arrived the Mennonite was already waiting at the entrance to Metamorphosis. There were lights all down the lane and cars outside the cathouses but no one wandering from one to the next. They walked into Metamorphosis and he scanned the bodies below in search of Óscar.

The place was packed, placid but packed. There were people asleep underneath tables and asleep on top of tables—like really sleeping, not booze-induced sleeping. And those who were awake were conversing with the dancers. Normally they paid little attention, as if women taking off their clothes before a gaggle of drunkaneers was totally unremarkable; now they sat, chatting, nobody drooling, nobody tail-shaking. One lonely soak at the bar slurred It’s aaaaaaaall over, It’s aaaaaaaall over, again and again and again. Everyone else was cool and attentive, as if listening to hailstones on a tin roof.

They haven’t been out for days, he heard Óscar say behind him. Claim it’s too dangerous but you ask me, this is their chance of a lifetime.

I see you made use of those facemasks, the Redeemer said. One girl was dancing before a cluster of liquored-up fools, naked but for the mask over her mouth; each time she leaned close she made as if to take it off, and the boozers whooped in titillation.

Fuck yeah, said Óscar.

Óscar, the Redeemer said. The Fonseca kid. You sure bout where you saw him come out of?

Óscar glanced at him for a single second: long enough to draw up, read through, sign and notarize a confidentiality clause between the two of them.

Girls’ place, yeah, he said. He was referring not to these girls, the working girls, but to the customers.

Appreciate it, brother.

They left Metamorphosis and entered Incubus. The clientele was less numerous but more boisterous, only a dozen or so women, rorty and sloshed. They sat at the tables with two or three strippers, drinking. The floor was empty.

The Mennonite addressed the madam, a stout elegant woman with very black hair.

I’m looking for a boy.

Hm. We generally cater to a female clientele but it’s always possible to arrange something.

The Mennonite cast a glance around the tomcathouse, studying the handful of men, and said: I’m looking for one with a steady boyfriend.

The madam observed them distrustfully. Then she got it.

Must be that one, and she pointed to a young man, almost a teenager really, attempting to smile at the woman buying him drinks. He’s been acting all mopey. Must’ve had a fight with his boyfriend; guy used to come pick him up after work but I didn’t see him last night.

They approached the table where he sat. The Redeemer bent over the woman the kid was hooking until he was almost brushing her cheek.

Let me borrow him for one sec, amiga, just a quick word and then he’s all yours.

She batted her eyes diplomatically and the Mennonite nodded the boy over to the next table.

I don’t sleep with men, he said as soon as they sat down.

We know, said the Mennonite. Or rather, you only sleep with one.

The Mennonite spat the words, resting his hands on the table as if he might backhand the boy at any moment. The kid suddenly looked scared. The Redeemer’s approach was more gentle.

Tell us what happened two nights ago.

He came in. We argued about the same thing as always—and with this he gestured, taking in the whole of the whorehouse with one hand—then he took off. Didn’t even wait for his sister.

His sister. Fuckit.

Did they come together?

Yeah, but he ran off and it took her a minute to follow. It was crowded that night. And then neither of them came back.

They rose, intending to leave, but the boy stopped the Redeemer with an arm. What is it, what happened to him?

Get some sleep, the Redeemer said. But tell them to give you the day off tomorrow. By then we’ll know for sure.

They walked out and the Redeemer lit a cigarette and stood smoking by the Bug. It was time to call Dolphin. He dialed.

I got bad news, he said.

Dolphin was silent, or his mouth was anyway; the lung wheezed.

Romeo’s dead, he said. But the Castros aren’t to blame.

He listened to Dolphin wheeze down the line and then hang up with no reply.

He was tired of delivering that kind of news, and now he felt bad for not having delivered it to the one person who may have truly cared. Motherfuckit.

He got a very few hours of straggly shuteye, alternating between simple dreams of tires in motion and cats on ledges, and got up with neither vigor nor languor. Please let it be a dull day and not some deranged vigil.

He tried Gustavo again, the know-it-all legal beagle. Not home. Letting himself be guided by an early morning urge he got back in the Bug and drove around behind the Big House for a tamale sandwich; only at the empty corner did he remember there was no one out on the streets. He was hungry as hell. And thirsty. But all there was was rankystank water in a few puddles on the path and those dense gray clouds that refused to squeeze out a drop. A synthetic insanity to the weather, the city, the people, all sulking, all plotting who-knows-what.

He headed for Las Pericas. Suddenly he saw something in the middle of the street and slammed on the brakes. A huge heap of rags, or hacked-up dogs. He dodged the pile and eyed it as he passed: it was neither of those things; it was a man, black with sludge. The Redeemer thought he looked familiar. He rolled down the window and stuck his head out. It was the junkman he’d come across the day before, mouth stuffed full of facemasks, eyes wide as an illuminati. The Redeemer rolled up the window, rolled on.

Before ringing the bell at Las Pericas he pulled the facemask out of his pocket. It was stiff with too much spit on one side, too much world on the other; what good was that now? He put it back in his pocket and rang the bell.

The Unruly poked her head out a window, then opened the door and stood to one side. The Redeemer walked in and saw they’d put several bags of ice on Baby Girl, whole unopened bags. Despite all the ice it was as if you could see new life there, see some color, sense something new inhabiting her. He pulled off the bags and tossed them aside. Then he tried to lift her, but she was so heavy. He looked at the Unruly, maybe she’d agree to help, she seemed softer, more compliant than before; but in the end he decided to carry the body by himself. We’re going to be all right, he said to the shell of Baby Girl as he hoisted her up in his arms and headed out into the leaden morning.

The Unruly, without his asking, walked alongside, opened the Bug’s door and even shifted the passenger seat up so he could place her inside. Her body wasn’t yet stiff, so he was able to arrange it as tho Baby Girl had curled up for a siesta on a road trip, raising her head from time to time to ask Are we there yet, are we there yet?

What’s this? Where to? asked the Redeemer as he watched the Unruly get in as well.

I’m coming with you.

Didn’t they tell you how this works? Me and another guy like me make sure everything’s okay, and then—and only then—do we make the switch.

Right. But they also told me to see where you put her. It’s not like you’re the one running the show.

He started the car. No sooner had he turned the corner than he saw a couple kids take off running, something in their arms. He had a hunch what it was about and pulled up. Indeed, someone had broken the lock on a corner store and they were looting the place bit by bit. Lowlifes. Still, he stopped the car, got out, grabbed a few bottles of water and two prepackaged sandwiches, and left a few bills on a high shelf in the hopes that the kids wouldn’t be able to reach them. He was wolfing down the sandwiches before he’d even left the store.

There were even fewer cars out now. On one avenue, where trying to cross normally meant taking your life in your hands, the only thing on the street was the fear of penned-up people. As if everyone’s prejudices about everyone else had suddenly been confirmed.

They say some people are spreading it on purpose, the Unruly announced, as tho they’d both been thinking the same thing.

He didn’t reply but did turn to look at her. He glanced at her hands: fleshy and soft, a yellowy stain at her fingertips. With all the facemasks he now looked more at eyes and hands. If this carried on, people would end up IDing one another by their fingernails.

I met your brother-in-law, he announced abruptly. The Unruly turned to him, little-girl fear on her face.

That’s right, the Redeemer said. You going to tell me what happened?

The Unruly stared straight ahead and crossed her hands, struggling for self-possession. The Redeemer decided to push a little harder.

Romeo. The Castros didn’t touch him, did they.

The Unruly shook her head slowly side to side.

No. When I went outside he was already on the ground and they were just going to him.

And why didn’t you go to him too?

Now it was her turn to stare at her hands or perhaps out past her hands.

The Redeemer was about to ask something else but she said: He didn’t like for people to see him sad, down. I don’t know if that was why—because he’d have hated me for seeing him like that—or if I was too drunk to understand what was going on. I’m drunk almost all the time.

This girl would cry if she had any fucking idea how, thought the Redeemer, seeing the way she let her eyes fall to the floor, utterly defeated. And then the Unruly did cry, cried short and hard, without changing her expression, maybe without realizing she was crying.

He didn’t want to go out, he really didn’t, she repeated. He was scared of this shit. The sick people, all those dirtbags coughing up blood. He didn’t even like going to the doctor, he was that scared of places with so many fucking sick people.

So why’d you snatch Baby Girl?

My father said to, told us to take one of the Castros, said this time they were going to pay, is what he said. So I went out because I’d seen Baby Girl hanging around here before and she was always alone. When I found her she was leaving home, on her way out, and she looked bad; I told her to come with me and she didn’t even ask why or where to. When I got her home my father was so happy, and then we put her in the car and took her to Las Pericas. That’s when I saw she had blood coming out her mouth. We put her to bed but she didn’t last long after that.

But didn’t you ask Dolphin why he was doing it?

I did, but all he said was: Be loyal to your family, do as I say. So I said I’m sure Romeo isn’t that bad off. I don’t know if he really believed me or whatever it is he has against the Castros just became more important, but the only thing he said was: He’s my son, I’ll handle it how I see fit.

The things people inscribe on tombstones, even if only with their breath. I will love you always. I can never forgive you. Forget about me. I’ll be back. You’ll pay for this. Words that etch deeper than a chisel. Erasing those things was what the Redeemer was there for. He excelled at nothing but the ability to diminish malediction; to free folks from cell blocks, or their own promises. The fact that he was never in the way meant he could be used like a screwdriver and then stuck back in the toolbox, no need to thank him at all. That fix you’re in? Take care of it
entre nous
. That secret of yours? We’ll keep it
entre nous
. That fine you got?
Entre nous
, let’s lower it; that alibi you need,
entre nous
we’ll cook it up. Dirtywork is providence.

That was what he knew, how to efface set-in-stone truths. But he still had nothing to grab hold of in this tale of lonely deaths, nothing but pieces of lies. Solid lies, but lies nonetheless.

In the rearview he saw a black truck riding up on them hard, several yards behind. He slowed to let them pass but the truck pulled alongside, someone in it looked at Baby Girl and then it cut them off. Two badasses emerged with faces that confirmed they were indeed very big badasses. The one who got out on the passenger side didn’t have to tell the Redeemer to hustle. The Redeemer turned off the engine and got out. The badasses weren’t wearing facemasks either.

Girl gets out too, said one of them.

The city had seen other times when people died by the cartload, but back then it was bankrolled black lung and mass mine collapses—the usual. Perhaps because life was short, people had learned not to stick their noses into the affairs of others: existence was already a bitch without worrying about them as well. Perhaps that was also why they were all so fixated on form, on nicedaying and areyouwelling and thankgodding and tookinding. Mechanisms to mark distance. But these thugs knew nothing of etiquette.

The Unruly got out of the car and went and stood behind the Redeemer, arms crossed.

What’d you do to the other girl? asked one.

Nothing, she died of this shit.

The badass adjusted his dark glasses, took a few steps toward the Bug, stared at Baby Girl a few seconds and returned.

You need the body?

I do, said the Redeemer. Only reason I’m out is so I can deliver it.

Thing is, we need a body, the badass said. But I guess there’s lots of them around these days.

He said something to the other badass and they got back in their vehicle. The Redeemer and the Unruly returned to theirs.

Normally it’s the dead that are rotten, not the living, the Unruly said.

Her proclamation made the Redeemer want to up and forget about everything and have everybody up and forget about him. He wanted to crawl under a rock or onto some furniture. Who knows why we were left here like collateral, he thought. I guess some other Redeemer will negotiate our release.

They arrived at the Big House and he handed the Unruly the keys to start clearing the way, got Baby Girl inside, lay her on his bed. The Unruly stared at the Redeemer’s possessions as tho shocked to see he didn’t live in a cave, then said I’m outta here, don’t move her without telling us.